Oblivion
by halfbloodjedi
Summary: Newts final days as a crank and his journey to Denver
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own The Maze Runner or any of its characters

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**Chapter 1**

He waited until they'd walked out the doorway of the blowing alley, Thomas with Brenda and Minho who he was almost dragging and the fake crank Jorge following them till he slowly lowered his launcher and sunk to the ground. And then it came, again, worse than ever before. The darkness he'd grown so familiar to, the utter hopelessness, crushing down on him mercilessly, he screamed in agony, his crazed thoughts becoming even more riddled with despair. It was over for him, there was no escaping his reality.

A woman near to him giggled loudly as if she found his misery amusing. Instantly he was on his feet again and advanced on her no longer in control of himself, the scrap of sanity he'd had while his friends had visited gone as he raised the launcher and pressed it to her forehead making her giggle even more.

A part of him could tell she was near to the gone, she was in a right state with her filthy dress hanging off her battered skeletal frame covered in open sores and bleeding scratches which she'd probably given to herself but none of that mattered now, there was only rage.

"Whats so bloody funny you shuck crank" he screamed at her spittle flying from his mouth and all over her face.

She was gasping for air now, tears streaming down her face as she continued to giggle uncontrollably "shuck?" more giggles "shucks and cranks, ducks in banks" she said now laughing in an eerie high pitch which stopped abruptly as he pulled the trigger impaling a grenade in her skull and enveloping her in lightening tendrils causing her to shriek and writhe in pain scratching more deep cuts in her skin until she fell silent and still.

He stepped over her and surveyed the rest of the bowling alley in challenge but nobody spared him a glance, they were all too caught up in the insanity of their own minds or completely drugged out on the bliss. His rage was receding now as he turned back beginning to feeling sick from what he'd just done.

It was all too much, he'd just seen his best friends for what was probably the last time and they'd offered him an escape he knew he couldn't take. Shuck he knew he couldn't escape from the moment the rat-man had told him he had the flare. And then there was Tommy, bloody shuck faced good for nothing Tommy. He couldn't fathom why he'd trusted him with his note, his final wish only to have it thrown in his face like it was worth klunk. He put his head in his hands with his fists tightly grasping his hair which he felt like ripping out as his rage started to build again blocking out all reasonable thoughts.

He wanted to chase after them and throttle Thomas with his bare hands, he wanted to hurt him as much as he was hurting because it was his fault he was still even hurting at all. He had hoped he'd be dead by now but luck had never been on his side and hope was a shitty thing anyway. Wild thoughts rushed through his diseased brain each one becoming more and more extreme and violent as he imagined making Thomas feel pain till suddenly he realized he was standing again his fists clenched so tightly that his nails had dug into his palms making them bleed.

Then all at once the rage was gone, with despair settling back in its place. However he was most sane when he wasn't angry. His eyes swum with tears, he was trapped, trapped in his own mind, trapped in his body that he no longer had any respect for, he hated himself. He hated that he couldn't control himself, he hated that there was no chance for him no future, only oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Newt couldn't remember leaving the bowling alley. One moment he had been sobbing on the floor and the next he was lying in the middle of a street in the housing sector. The street was deserted and scattered with trash. The air smelt rancid with the underlying smell of smoke. He felt scared, how much time had passed? Hours? Days? What had he done during that time?

The back of his head ached and he looked down at his hands to see that his knuckles were bruised and split as if he'd been fighting. Dried blood was all over his arms and clothes which were now ripped even worse than before. He realized that he'd lost his launcher making him feel vulnerable. But there wasn't a damned soul in sight and the silence unsettled him making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Where was everyone? There weren't even any munie guards around. Had something serious happened?

He couldn't stand being exposed in the middle of the street so he made for the house nearest to him. A 'house' was a generous term for the building which stood lopsidedly before him, a shack would have been a better term. A filthy ripped curtain hung in the doorway and there was no glass in the windows. He brushed aside the curtain andentered, standing for a moment in the doorway letting his eyes adjust to the dimness.

There wasn't much inside, a sink filled with stinking rubbish, a broken bed frame and another door which he assumed lead to the bathroom judging by the smell. There was also a table in the middle of the room but it was missing all of its legs, the dishes that must have once been on top of it lay around it on the floor with food spilling out of them.

That struck him as strange. Whoever had lived here had left in a hurry, as if they had been in the middle of a meal then realized that they had to leave immediately taking their tables legs with them. He ventured further inside discovering a cupboard under the sink which contained, much to his surprise, a few cans of food, a flashlight that miraculously worked and some empty bottles.

He took everything out of the cupboard and set it all down on the leggless table. After rummaging around in the trash and the scattered belongings he also found a dented can opener, a shirt and a shard of a mirror which he immediately wrapped up in a piece of cloth. He was afraid of what he might see in his reflection. Did he look different? Or worse was he so crazy he wouldn't even recognize himself?

Pushing the thought aside, he filled his bottles from the sink tap. The water was murky but it was better that nothing. He also washed himself as best he could revolting in the muck that washed off him reluctantly and turned the water a dark brown. The water seemed to clear his head too making him realize that he was hungry.

Opening a can of mixed beans and sitting on the floor, he slowly ate, savoring every mouthful which tasted like heaven to him, his stomach rumbling in approval. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.. The thought stopped him cold. What had he done during his blackout? Had he.. No he couldn't have.. Well he couldn't have but he wasn't sure of what the crank side of him would do. He pushed his half eaten can of food away and stood and surveyed himself. His chest and torso was riddled with bruises and cuts and his knees were scraped. His thin frame seemed to be thinner to him with his rib cage beginning to stick out but he didn't think that he looked like a cannibal. Not yet.

"I'm starting to look like a buggin skeleton though" he thought to himself as he put on his new shirt which was slightly big on him.

Wishing he could just stay but knowing otherwise, he collected his new belongings in his old shirt and left the house deciding to head for the gates. He couldn't stay in the crank palace a second longer, something had obviously happened.. Had the cranks finally broken out? He thought about the group he'd been with that had been planning to go to Denver, he didn't see the point or how it would benefit him but anywhere was better than here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Navigating the filth strewn alleyways and paths he slowly came to reach the outskirts. His spirits lifted a little at the thought of finally leaving the hellhole he had thought he'd die in. Everyday he'd spent in the crank palace had been the worst days of his already miserable life. His emotions, that had been heightened by the flare, made him feel so overwhelmed at times he'd thought his mind would implode. Such extreme mood swings left him feeling simultaneously detached from his mind and yet a prisoner to it.

The sun was high in the sky and warmed his back as he walked along, reminding him of his days spent in the glade, days when he had felt almost happy, surrounded by the other gladers, the boys that had become his family as he had no memory of his own. No, WICKED had long since taken that away, just as they took and took anything they felt entitled to take from him, even when he had thought he'd had nothing left to give, even when he was already so forsaken, they pushed him past his physical and mental limits only to leave him for nothing, cursed with the disease they were trying so desperately to cure.

His vision turned blurry as tears started to spill uncontrollably from his eyes. Leaning against a wall, utter hopelessness crushed him. Never had he felt so alone, so rejected. It was all WICKEDs fault, he thought as his emotions bubbled inside of him each threatening to overcome him. Rage, sadness, bloodlust, and grief coursed through him making him forget who or where he was. He clenched his fists so tightly he broke the newly healed scabs on his knuckles but the pain brought him back to reality, he focused on it, using the feeling as a lifeline, reveling in the blood that oozed forth as it pushed the prevailing insanity back into his mind.

He stood, wiping off the blood on his trousers and taking a drink of water, realizing as he did so, that his hands were shaking. He'd been so close, but aware of the impending blackout during which the flare would take control of his mind and body and it terrified him how easily it could deep breaths he tried to shake off the feeling as he continued walking.

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It took him about ten minutes to find his way to the outer ring and he could see the huge wooden wall looming ahead, he quickened his pace passing through a low archway and getting his first glimpse of the outside world through the main gates in what felt like years. A cool breeze blew through them, fresh and inviting. He hastened towards them and then stopped. He was unarmed and alone, with hardly any resources or knowledge of the surrounding area.

He looked around spotting a small shed that was built against the outer wall near to the gates and that must have been a guard station. He didn't know what he'd hoped to find there but he pushed open the door and immediately recoiled from the smell that assaulted his nostrils. A rotting stench so strong and pungent he felt like it was coating his very skin.

And then he saw what was inside the shed.

Mutilated bodies, piled on top of each other and infested with maggots. Some of the bodies were missing limbs and most of the faces were defiled beyond recognition. It was the munie guards left to rot without ceremony and the sight was burned into his mind. Never had he seen death like this before.

Reeling he turned and began to run, through the gates, into the forest stopping only when his stomach finally gave out. Retching till he tasted bile he sobbed though no tears would come, he was empty, spent. His mind was being pushed to its limit and he knew it wouldn't be long before he broke.

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**AN: **The purpose of this fic is to try and explain and explore Newts emotions, and since he is not only a crank but also a person who had attempted suicide I feel like in actuality Newt was a dark person. (I mean he's been through ALOT of shit) Also, I'm also trying to fine tune the details of how the Flare affects a person. I guess what I'm trying to say is that so far I don't have much dialogue planned but more just narration in an attempt to explain the madness of Newts decent into madness. Id love to hear what you think of the story so far and any suggestions or questions you have so please to review :)

x


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